Sick At Home Again And Some Bad Poetry Balanced Out By A Snippet Of Good Poetry

I am sick at home again. Yesterday, I was sick at home for the entire day, which is not entirely common for me. I had spent all of Sunday alternating between fevers and chills amid periods of complete normalcy. That day I fell asleep at some ridiculously early hour like 8 or 9 pm, and miraculously awoke when my alarm would have gone off if I had set it, which I didn’t. I lay about dreading the thought of lifting my leaden head from its wedged in position between two pillows, and when I finally summoned up the gumption to swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up, reality came up and granted me my greatest desire: I would indeed not have to get out of bed officially, because my body was killing me. My lower back was in knots, my calves and thighs were on the verge of cramping from all the shivering activity of the day before, my eyes were actually wobbling in their sockets so that I couldn’t read anything properly, and my mouth tasted like rotten meat smells. I crawled to the telephone in the living room, dialed up work, and told them I would not be in until Tuesday, which was the next day, which is today.

But before I get into today, I’ll tell you one thing: if you have been wobbling around your apartment all day, and I mean really wobbling – your head, your eyes, your feet, everything – and you have had only a half can of baked beans to sustain you, do not attempt a trip to Shopper’s Drug Mart to search out better food. It’s not the best idea at all. Also, don’t have your first cigarette in almost two days while you are making this ill-fated trip, because that will only exacerbate the wobbling. I found myself staring at a carton of twelve eggs in the grocery aisle and contemplating how, now that I am living alone in this apartment until Hallowe’en, twelve eggs seems a bit extreme. I suddenly couldn’t read the carton very well, and then everything started going dim. I turned my head to try to focus my eyes down the aisle and was met with an older woman asking me “is everything alright, honey?”. I had to perch myself on the edge of the dairy cooler for a minute and take deep breaths. I was thankful that I managed to pay for my stuff and make it home without passing out along the way and congratulated myself on my fortitude with tortilla chips, salsa, and an episode of “Law & Order”.

Again, I passed out somewhere between 8 and 9 pm without setting my alarm, but woke up this morning at exactly the right time. I only experienced mild wobbliness this morning, so I went to work. I hate sitting around at home being sick, and it did raise my spirits to be active at work this morning, but around 10 am things stopped going so well. First, a mild case of the runs hit. Then stomach cramps kicked in. Alternating chills and fever started at around 11 am, and that’s when I told everyone I would be leaving after the next couple of letters had been written.

Here I am now, stuck at home with wobbliness again plus cramps and the runs. It’s sucking very, very hard, although one good thing has come out of this experience. I got Stereogirl’s new template up and running. You should go and take a gander at her weblog, and not just because I designed it, but because I read her all the time, too. Now go! You don’t want to keep her waiting.

For The Fiery One While He Is Far Away In Europe

I close my eyes and see a line
that draws my eyes along a jaw
along a jaw up to a lobe
where hangs a silver hoop

Your are in place
concealed behind my lids
as when I’ve wrapped my arms around
and feel swollen where I press you

except this time
I’m through the hoop
the empty space where I pass through
because you are in fucking Europe
you damned arse.

This could have been a lovely poem, but in the middle of the thing I realized that this is his job, and we talked amongst ourselves and decided he should do it, and it’s not like he’s off at war. Plus, two sentiments are better than one, right? I may finish it properly if there is a call for it, but until then, in an effort to fix the damage I have done, here is a beautiful segment from a poem I cannot find the original of in its entirety. Again, it’s a little disappointing, but it will have to do.
What shall I do, singer and first-born, in a
world where the deepest black is grey,
and inspiration is kept in a thermos?
with all this immensity
in a measured world?

– from 'The Poet', trans. by Elaine Feinstein (found via wood s lot)

Read unfolded origami.

This is an excellent post by Brad Zellar.

I have a new link on the sidebar under “special interest”. It starts with a Z.

What I've Been Up To Since Tuesday And Mushiness For The Fiery One

Volunteering Voluntarily And A Brass Band